


Leading (You'll Marry a Music Man)

by cynosure_phrases



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing Lessons, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slow Build, Watford Sixth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: At least he falls more relaxed now, body less rigid to the slow, spinning movements we share. In fact, it feels too relaxed. Too unstructured.“Don’t fall behind, Snow,” I snap as he trips up again, head flying down to watch his feet. “And don’t look at yourself. Crowley, you’re helpless.”“I--” he starts, frowning and shooting his chin back up to face me. His eyes narrow, and he starts to smell a bit like a charred matchstick. “Fuck you I’m trying.”--The Spring Formal is quickly approaching, and Simon wants to dance with his girlfriend. He doesn't know who else to turn to...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561252
Comments: 12
Kudos: 251





	Leading (You'll Marry a Music Man)

“She… asked me to dance with her,” he says, picking at his cuticles. They’re rough, just like the rest of the skin on his hands. Dried and cracking, with small slits peeled away to expose not-yet scabbed open flesh. “But I don’t know how to dance.”

“What makes you say  _ I _ would know how?” I sound so cruel when I mock him. I really shouldn’t be doing that--it’s bordering desperate nowadays. This used to be fun, like a proper game of cat and mouse, but now it’s just boring. More like checkers (or “1001 Ways To Repress Your Crush”).

Snow shrugs, eyes focused on his nail beds. He really is atrocious with personal care. Sure, his hygiene is good enough, but he lets the small things slip. His skin stays dry in winters, and ever since he started growing wispy bits of facial hair last year, he rarely gives himself a clean shave. It must be hard for everyone else to tell, but for me, I can’t help but look at his upper lip. And his lower one, too.

“Don’t all posh kids get dancing lessons as a kid?” he says clearly, and without a hint of sarcasm. He really thinks we did.

My only instinct is to snort, settling my book onto my chest despite having been drawn away from it for the past minute or so. “Honestly, Snow, it’s not the dark ages. We don’t have ceremonious  _ balls _ anymore.”

When he frowns, his whole face moves with it. Puppy dog eyes--pout and all. “Agatha had dancing classes. I’d assumed that was usual.”

“Well it’s not.”

He chews on his lip, staring at me from across the room. His dresser door hangs open, a few ties loosely dangling haphazardly on a knob. “Does this mean you’re not going to help me?”

“What made you think I was intending on helping you in the first place?”

“Rich people like charity cases. Makes ‘em seem normal. Seem  _ human _ .”

My brows narrow up at him, jaw setting. He’s ridiculous. Absolutely, out of his mind, ridiculous. “Oh, poor little Snow wants to be a charity case  _ now _ , does he?” I slide the book off my chest and settle it onto the night stand in front of me. Interjecting before he has the chance, I clear my throat and raise my gaze back up to his. “Allow me to clarify the situation. You want me to give you dancing lessons so that you can dance with your pretty little girlfriend at the spring formal next week?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s nothing in it for me besides a sense of, what,  _ charity work? _ ”

“Well, I don’t have much else to give you, do I?”

I purse my lips, drumming my hand onto the mattress. Crowley. This is already a bloody mess (quite literally, given his skin’s  _ still _ bleeding a bit from the picking).

“Please?” He adds, reluctantly. It sounds a bit like when you’re a kid and your parent prods your shoulder for the sake of manners. I can’t help but imagine Bunce being the one who taught him that.

“Merlin.” I swing my legs around, planting my feet flat on the floor as I feel his eyes follow me. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Is that--”

“Don’t push it, Snow. Leave it without the verbals.”

He stares at me, dumbfounded. “But, why?”

“You cock up any verbal communication.” I watch as he opens his mouth to protest, then immediately snaps it shut and clenched. “I’m going to say this once, and this once  _ only _ . I’ll help you with this… this  _ thing _ , so long as you shut up and listen. Deal?”

He nods, lips twitching into a half-frown, half straightened and tight-lipped.

I nod back to him, standing and crossing my arms over my chest. “Should we start now then?”

“I--well--”

“Yes or no, Snow.”

He rubs his neck, shirt lifting a bit as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Yeah. Sure, yes.”

Despite his words, when I step closer, he steps back and raises his hands without a second thought. I just roll my eyes, arms staying crosses as I watch him scramble about.

He recollects himself quickly, cheeks going a tad bit pink as he clears his throat. “Music?”

Well, he does have a point. Shouldn’t be getting myself  _ too _ carried away.

Reaching into my back pocket, I draw my wand and point it into the air. Without it being pointed at him, Snow flinches back in the slightest as he throws his eyes towards the floor. I simply utter “ **_You’ll marry a music man_ ** .” Out of the walls leaks soft sounds of a gentle melody, one easy to sway to.

Snow’s eyes lift as I offer a hand, bowing my head. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it. His palm is rough and warm, and when my fingertips trail up his wrist, I can feel his pulse padder against my skin. It makes for such an intimate moment, with the raise of his eyes up to my face to the shaky offer of his other hand.

Sliding my wand back into my pocket wastes me a precious moment of uncomfortably trying to hold Snow in a faked out, bullshit, “angrily” agreed upon dance lesson.

Because, in all honesty, I want to do this. 

Sort of.

I want to have Snow close--to feel his breath on my skin and his strong, clumsy hands settled onto me. I want to feel him sway with me; to feel his trust in my movements. I want all the world of him in a dance.

What I don’t want, though, is him knowing.

Even settling his palm to mine overwhelms me with the all-encompassing fear that he’ll somehow find out. I’ll let it slip, or he’ll finally learn to look through me in my weakest moments.

Given our history, I should be more afraid of him stabbing me (or me draining him), but instead I’m here running myself in circles in fears of him knowing more to me than anybody else does. And that’s terrifying.

There’s truly nothing more heartstopping than the look in Snow’s eyes as I wrap my fingers around his free wrist. Heartstopping, as both breathtaking and fear-evoking. Especially as I settle his hand against my back, head tipping up as he stares up at me glassily.

I wish he wasn’t this beautiful up close.

“Fall into step,” I tell him with an uncharacteristic softness to my voice, nudging his foot with mine before I start carefully stepping into a basic waltz. He tries to follow after a moment, basically just rocking on his feet.

After nearly a minute, I notice the issue upon us. “Move your hand to my shoulder,” I order, hand slipping around his arm and settling onto his upper back. I feel him tense below me.

“Wha… isn’t this putting you in lead?” he mumbles, a bit confused but having the right idea.

“Exactly.”

“But--”

“Just watch what I’m doing,” I shush him,, eyes down at our feet. “Watch how I move.”

He grumbles something inaudible, head hanging as I start back into step. It’s slower this time, and we fall more into a sway as my feet drag across the floor. I whisper quiet commands of where to move, how to step. He, somewhat, follows them, while stepping on me a few times in the process.

It’s nearly dark before he realizes they’re serving dinner.

He snaps away, letting the music of the room fade out as he backs further off from me wordlessly. Not to my shock, he can’t look me in the eye (even as he gives a short wave to head off).

By the time night falls and I wander back into the room after my trip to the wood, he’s asleep with his back to me.

It’s odd--it  _ hurts _ . It aches as nothing else between us has before, and I can’t quite pinpoint where it comes from. The odd rushed sensation of him ripping himself from me (albeit, understood, given food was in question) leaves me with a cold pang in my chest. Does he want to keep dancing? How long are these “lessons” supposed to last?

I sit at the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall of his body as it rakes over my brain. Why me of all people?

People like him. People  _ love _ him. People adore the way he smiles and listens, given he barely talks at all. It's absolutely past me as to why he asked  _ me _ of all people, when he could just ask around class until he found someone who didn't prickle at his touch, just to learn some quick dancing.

Unlacing my shoes and laying back, I listen to his soft inhales and exhales, mixing with the soft sloshing of the moat so near to us.

The window's open, and it's freezing.

He's shirtless and cuddling his blanket, not letting it drape over him.

I'll leave it; he'd want that. I'll do anything he wants. It's so painfully unfair that I crumble so quickly for him, but it is how it is.

Even as I close my eyes and try to sleep, I overwhelm myself with the reality that I'm practically dancing Snow right into Wellbelove’s arms. I'm letting him be happy.

Which doesn’t feel quite right. It feels overwhelming selfish, ultimately, to be giving him these dance classes. I could have fully told him off; told him to google it, or to trust that Wellbelove already likes him as the oaf he is. But I didn’t. I decided that, of all places, the space in my arms is where he’s meant to be (at least, for now).

And, as the next day comes upon us, I find that I'm almost excited at the prospect of our lessons.

When he asks me, I try to force an exasperated expression before waving my wand and letting the music pour.

“When can I lead?” He complains, dropping his hand to my shoulder. “I  _ will _ be leading, after all.”

“When you learn to follow,” I hiss, taking his palm and cupping our fingers around one another’s hands. His thumb rubs once against my skin, and I mock it up to a fluke.

At least he falls more relaxed now, body less rigid to the slow, spinning movements we share. In fact, it feels too relaxed. Too unstructured.

“Don’t fall behind, Snow,” I snap as he trips up again, head flying down to watch his feet. “And don’t look at yourself. Crowley, you’re helpless.”

“I--” he starts, frowning and shooting his chin back up to face me. His eyes narrow, and he starts to smell a bit like a charred matchstick. “Fuck you I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough, obviously.” My head turns away, facing the wall. For some unknown and fully unfair reason, I can’t look him in the eye so close. It stings--it feels like lemon juice. I hurt enough being this close already.

“Fine!” he snaps, letting go entirely. “Lesson done for today, then. Prick.” He picks up the blazer he threw onto his bed and storms out of the room wordlessly, leaving it reeking of smoke and ash.

I hate that it makes me want a cigarette.

What I hate more, though, is his now blatant acts to ignore me, down to the end of the day. Turned away again, curled into himself and keeping the window wide open. I shut it tonight, perhaps more of a spiteful gesture onto my feelings  _ for _ him rather than his actions towards me.

Either way, fuck this.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly as I count.  _ One day, two days, three days, four… _ the dance is now six days away. Which, of course, means at least five more lessons. Brilliant.

The next day feels the same. We have our lesson, we snap a bit, but this time we make it through over a half an hour before I head off to practice.

The next few days flow just the same--we dance, we bicker, we finish for one reason or another. We  _ don’t _ talk about it. There’s something forbidden held in the words of our actions, therefore it goes unspoken. Unnoted.

In fact, we barely speak about anything until three days before the formal when Snow looks at me and says, “I thought you said you didn’t know how to dance.”

I slowly dip my head down, staring at him incredulously. “When did I ever--”

“You said you didn’t have dance classes.”

“I said not every posh kid had lessons,” I correct, holding his hand tighter as we continue to step. “I never said anything about my own classes.”

He lights up to that, a grin spreading across his face. “ _ Aha! _ I knew it! You had rich little dance classes, huh?”

Automatically, I sigh and lift my head so my eyes stare anywhere else but him as I exhale. “I took two years of dancing because my stepmother thought it was a good idea. There. Happy?”

Snow laughs, hand squeezing mine as we spin. “How old were you then?”

“Started when I was seven,” I monotone, still looking up, to the side, and just at anything that isn’t  _ him. _ “Had a little suit and everything.”

“Awhh,” he sighs. I can feel his smile, and it makes me feel sick. “I bet you were actually nice then.”

“I doubt it. My siblings are ankle-biters as it is now. Couldn’t be much different than them.”

“Didn’t know you have sisters…”

I dare a glance at him, raising a brow teasingly as I us about and watch the clear, overwhelming openness on his face (Crowley, it hurts). “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Simon Snow.”

The wiggle of his index startles me, making me tense as he laces our hands together. I’m about to tell him off, opening my mouth for a jab, before he speaks up before me. “I want to know those things.”

_ “Why?” _

“Because… we don’t  _ always _ have to fight. We’re not fighting right now.”

“We could be.”

“Yeah, but we aren’t.”

My jaw hangs open as I narrow my eyes at him, unsure of what to address about this first. “Snow--”

“We don’t have to be enemies,” he urges, suddenly dropping away from me. The music quickly fades, distancing as he steps further. “Are we enemies now? Do you want to kill me when we do this?”

My lip pulls to a snarl. “Yes. Always, obviously,” I blatantly lie, crossing my arms over my chest as Snow blinks, then pouts, lips twitching and working up to a rightful fit of emotions.

“Always the villain, huh?” He grumbles, rolling his eyes at me before picking up his blazer. “Fucking fine. Look. Forget about what I said, then.”

“Fine.” I feel disgusting. I want to punch myself. I want to throw myself to the merewolves. “Would rather forget.”

“Right.”

_ “Right.” _

We stare at one another, his brows pulled close and skin practically buzzing with frustrated magick whizzing about him before he huffs, shaking his head and leaving the room. Leaving me. Leaving me alone, with my thoughts. Alone with my frustrations for something that could’ve been  _ something _ , if I just hadn’t been myself…

Suppose that’s always what it boils down to. I’m a devil of my own creation.

I swallow my nerves and go to clean up, then head to the catacombs.

By the next day, there’s rumours going about over Snow and Wellbelove’s relationship. Something about a fight after he went down to dinner. I try to get a reliable source before the evening, but all I get is word on a tiff that went off between them, that someone saw Wellbelove leave Snow alone in a hallway corner looking all distraught, and that they’re both definitely single for the upcoming formal (most likely a suggestion for me to move on to Wellbelove. Sadly).

I don’t quite believe it. I don’t  _ want _ to believe it, for the same, sinking, selfish feeling of wanting to keep Snow for these dancing lessons, but the confirmation comes in the bitterest of ways.

“Hey, uh…” Snow says, stopping in during the break before dinner. I’m at my desk, halfheartedly attempting to concentrate on an essay for Linguistics. “You don’t have to worry about the lessons anymore.”

I pull my lip up, covering my sinking chest. “Right, after a few and now you believe you’re a prodigy. Well, I can tell you, Snow, you’re definitely not--”

“She broke up with me, you prick. Thought you’d known by now, given you’re all up on her,” he grumbles, giving me what looks more like exhaustion than a death glare. “Don’t have anyone to dance with anymore, so I don’t need to learn shit.”

I try not to look surprised. I try not to look curious. I try not to look  _ hopeful, _ of all things. “Ah. I see.”

“Yeah.” He scratches his neck, looking at the wall and exhaling before repeating, “Yeah.”

“Do you have anything else to note, Snow, or are you going to stand there and be a distraction?”

I hear Snow grunt and grumble for a minute, going to grab a jumper before locking himself in the bathroom for a minute. During the moment he exists in the room, I keep composure. At least visually. In actually, I’ve gotten six words written onto my page, and my mind is running at a million words a minute.

Of course he doesn’t notice when he leaves. He avoids looking at me, grabbing back his bag and slamming the door as he leaves.

We don’t address it.

Not for days.

Not even as the formal draws closer.

I do notice that Snow promptly fucks off a few hours before the event begins, and when I peer out the window, Bunce is trailing behind him in-tow, seeming to talk very exaggeratedly (with wild hands and even wilder hair). This, luckily, leaves me time to get ready. Wear the usual singular decent outfit I bring along every year. This year, I was allowed to pick (much to my father’s dismay and my stepmother’s delight). Maroon suit, yellow undershirt. My hair is slicked, my shoes are polished, and I look like I’m meant to be--composed and untouchable.

I leave with time to spare, stopping off to meet my minions before the trail along back, heading towards the chapel. They chat mindlessly about classes, then gossip a bit about Snow (Niall actually believes he has a shot with Wellbelove, which he asked for my blessing over once. I gladly gave it). I don’t give much input, busying myself with adjusting and readjusting my cuffs.

The formal itself is rather boring. With student government decorations, and the music clearly playing from somebody’s CD collection--I ache knowing what The bloody Mage has done with technology on grounds. The food seems edible if you’re desperate, and the punch hasn’t been spiked, but I look hot, so I’m not going to leave until  _ everybody _ sees me.

Everybody including Snow, who isn’t here yet.

Which is a shame, given I can’t quite whore myself out in my own room without risking anything and everything. No, I must be sophisticated out here.

Although, it does dawn on me an hour in that they could have easily been whisked off to a typical, dramatic adventure. One of which that he won’t be back in time to see me looking fit. Shame.

I consider sulking off for a while, watching in boredom from the side of the room, but something suddenly changes about the room--about my space, in particular.

I’m looking the opposite direction as someone falls into place beside me, nearly arm to arm and smelling so,  _ so _ familiar.

“Can I repay you for a dance?” Snow says, voice soft and muffled under the overwhelming hum of the crowd mixed with the terrible speakers.

I whip my head around, getting a good look at him.

His suit is a bit small. Looks like he got it fitted a year, maybe a year and a half ago, and has since grown wider and bolder. But the simplicity is forgiving, and the soft, springiness of his newly cared for hair makes him somehow more appealing.

Crowley. I’m going to throw myself to the fairies.

“You have more than  _ one _ dance to repay for,” I say, flicking my wrist and staring at him. He’s worrying his bottom lip, and I fear he’ll draw blood. “But… I’ll allow one. What did you bring me, then?”

He outstretches his hand, palm closed. I’m expecting a little strip of paper that reads “Fuck you”, or something equally as childish, but I’m instead greeted by a blank, offered hand.

“A dance back?” he asks, softer than ever. I worry I’m going to snap at him immediately, and ruin everything. Which, I believe he sees, because he’s squaring his shoulders and standing his ground. “I’m serious. Just a dance.”

“You want to dance with  _ me? _ In  _ public? _ ” Snow, throw me off a moving train, or do something as equally destructive as giving me everything I want, and then some.

He nods, hand unwavering. “Yeah.”

I watch it in the pink and purple light. He’s got a mole on his hand, at the top right corner of his palm.

I can’t stop myself from reaching out and brushing a fingertip over it, then slowly sliding my hand onto his and warmly closing at it. “So long as you know the consequences,” I warn, trying to sound harsh. I think I may sound scared.

But thankfully, he laughs, and pulls me off the wall. “I know, I know. You’ll take me by my shoulders and launch me into space for this, or whatever. Just let me thank you.”

He takes me out onto the outskirts of the dancers (which, truly, I am thankful for, given crowds are overwhelming to my senses, but he doesn’t know that). At first, I believe he’ll move to our usual positions, but he quickly beats me to it and takes the lead. I shock a bit, raising a brow as he smirks and scrunches his nose.

“I think I’ve learned enough to have this, don’t you?”

“Not really, but I’m not in the mood to squabble tonight.”

He shrugs, pulling me closer into him. “Fair enough,” he hums, “Still got me leading, then.”

“Fuck you,” I mumble, trying, as always, to keep my eyes away from him, but tonight, it feels impossible. He smells cleaner than usual, and he seems well cared for.

I have plenty of questions. Ones I refuse to ignore.

“Where had you run off to tonight, hm? Fighting a hoard of innocent Barbell Bats?”

“Sort of. Not really. Started with a mission, then Penny and I got attacked by Slime Serpents,” he starts, looking off distantly as he rambles. “And of course, we get trapped in downtown London of all places, reeking of the nasty slime, but thankfully alive. In the end, we make our way to her parent’s place, showered, and borrowed some clothes to come to the formal before they drove us back. Quick mission, but I, uh, wanted to be here for this.”

_ “Why?!” _ I can’t help but ask, squinting at him. I wouldn’t care nearly that much about something as mundane as a Watford formal.

But he looks at me. Crowley, he looks at me, clenching his jaw and swallowing. A moment passes, and I wait nervously, watching his every move, feeling his every step, before he shakes his head and curses.

“Nothing. Just… don’t want to miss any time here.”

I feel myself exhale, nodding and turning my head away. Merlin… “Figures.”

With that, his hand rubs my back in the slightest, making me stiffen and inhale sharply. He looks up at me, and I instinctively avoid eye contact. This is getting to be too much. “I’m going to go,” I mumble, starting to pull back.

He looks confused, brows pulled together and jaw hanging open as I gulp and shake my head, backing further away.

“Go find Wellbelove, Snow. Have your fairytale dance--I’m sure she’ll want at least one, even if you’re broken up.”

“But, Baz--”

I’m already out the door, heading to the dorm and leaving him far behind.

The stupid, lovesick part of me believes he’ll make a mad-dash behind me, telling me to stop and wait because  _ he _ loves  _ me _ , but nothing of the like follows. Instead, it’s silent, with just me marching alone past groups of younger students flocking towards the dance.

In the room, I remind myself, once again, to never anticipate anything Simon Snow does, because whatever outcome you’re expecting, it’ll never quite be right.

Which, is proven true, because he’s back early. Not… a mad dash, but far before the dance let out, either.

He looks worn, and frustrated, and utterly exhausted.

I’m already in bed, reading and in my pyjamas.

When the door closes, he doesn’t move. He stands by the doorway, staring at me for an extended minute and making my insides feel like mush.

“What is it, Sn--”

“Shut it,” he mumbles, starting to stomp closer. I recoil, shocking myself upright and against my headboard and wondering  _ where _ exactly he’ll punch me, but instead getting shocked by the way he stops at my bedside and waits. And stares. And looks at the edge of my bed, letting me shift aside nervously before he takes a seat and plays with his hands.

I’m holding my breath, counting the moments until he does  _ something _ , but then I realised I may just asphyxiate first.

“Snow?”

He shakes his head, head snapping up towards me. He looks in a haze, looking me all over before his hands surge out and, before I can even process it, he’s settling them onto my jaw and drawing himself into a kiss.

I freeze against him, eyes wide and mouth suddenly so,  _ so _ warm. His head’s tilted in, and his hair is in my face, and he’s so close. He’s here, against me, and I’m worrying I’m hallucinating until he’s pulling away, hands kept to my face.

I don’t let him. I yank him back in last minute and press my lips back, hard. Probably letting the fact that I don’t know anything about this show, too, but I’m not sure that matters. Simon Snow  _ wanting _ to kiss me (I assume--he started it, after all) is all that matters.

We’re not kissing long before he pulls back and apologises, cheeks pink and warm, and smelling of cinnamon sugar. Or, at least, to me they are.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should’ve--”

“Crowley, Snow, never apologise about that,” I murmur, dumbstruck and blinded by the moment. “I’m… what happened?”

“Aggie broke up with me because of you,” he mumbles, hesitantly setting a quick peck onto my lips, which I take happily. “Said I talk about you too much. I pay more attention to you than to her. I think she’s right.”

My eyes are shut, so I can’t see his expression, but I want to believe so desperately that he looks beyond enamoured. I can’t imagine it.

I open my eyes, then, and I’m blown away with how he actually looks.

Half-lidded and exposed. Warm. Like he’s ready to latch to me any minute.

“Why did you kiss me?” I feel myself say.

“Because,” he starts. “I figured one of two answers. You kill me, or you kiss me back. I thought about it earlier, when Penn and I were out. She asked me why I wanted to be back so much, and I told her the truth. That I wanted to see you dance. She gave me hell for that one, but I got the point eventually. And I couldn’t wait after I knew.”

The patience in this one, huh.

“Merlin,” I whisper, hesitantly setting my hands onto his shoulders. He presses into me, happily, with a soft hum and a cheerful grin.

“Well, you didn’t kill me.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever,” he whispers, licking his lips. He’s right. He doesn’t know it, but he’s right. Not ever.

I shrug, then look at him, feeling myself soften up. I move to cover it, pulling him in for another kiss.

“Snow,” I mumble onto his lips. He nods, letting me continue. “Please, never take the lead in dancing  _ again. _ You’re painfully awful at it.”

He grins, laughing against me. “Noted.”

**Author's Note:**

> my apologies, as this is unedited aa!!! i just made it through the first of two finals weeks (my first of art school/college!!!), so my roommates and i are running out to celebrate. hope you enjoyed, tho!


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